


when everything starts to stop

by peggycarterisacat



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (alt-Keith is dead before story start), Alternate Reality, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Off-screen Character Death, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Possessive Shiro (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, post-season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggycarterisacat/pseuds/peggycarterisacat
Summary: After season 8, Keith goes reality hopping.Three days ago, he pulled Keith's broken body out of the Red Lion and put him in cryo in case he-- just in case. Two days ago, Allura held him while he tried not to cry, and kindly didn't point out that there was nothing to be done.Yesterday, they crossed into an alternate reality and encountered a Voltron that managed to defeat Zarkon and remain whole, and he glimpsed that Shiro catching that Keith in a desperate, bruising kiss when they thought they were out of sight, as if they could defeat death through sheer force of will.Today they all stand gathered in Black's hangar, pale and frozen as Keith climbs out of the battered Galra fighter.But it's not Keith.





	when everything starts to stop

**Author's Note:**

> Working through some season 8 feelings. I believe all Shiros are doing their best, they're just... bad at communicating. 
> 
> Title from Cry Cry Cry by Scott Helman.

Keith hasn't been dead for three full days when a single Galra fighter finds them.

Shiro pretends he doesn't notice the concerned looks flying about the bridge when he rejects its repeated attempts to hail, pretends he doesn't see the way Allura hesitates to speak in the face of the burning grief that's consumed him, leaving him a husk of hollow char. He knows the others see how brittle he is, how fragile; he knows they think he might fall apart with a simple touch.

He pretends he doesn't know.

Three days ago, he pulled Keith's broken body out of the Red Lion and put him in cryo in case he— just in case. Two days ago, Allura held him while he tried not to cry, and kindly didn't point out that there was nothing to be done.

Yesterday, they crossed into an alternate reality and encountered a Voltron that managed to defeat Zarkon and remain whole. That reality's Shiro and Keith immediately stepped forward to comfort him when they realized his Keith was gone. He finally let himself cry sandwiched between them when the others gave them a moment alone to grieve, and, for one final time, indulged in the fantasy of a world where Keith might return the budding feelings that had taken root in Shiro's chest without his notice. The other Keith stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks and wiped away his tears; the other Shiro stayed a solid, enveloping presence at his back. Quiet — probably lost in worries of his own.

After, he glimpsed that Shiro catching that Keith in a desperate, bruising kiss when they thought they were out of sight, and watched them cling each other as if they could defeat death through sheer force of will — and maybe they could. They were still lucky enough to have each other.

Hate burns red-hot through his veins and he watches the lone Galra fighter dodge everything the castle can throw at it. It's not a Blade. It's not anyone who means anything. Why won't it just  _ die? _

No one stops him when he says he'll handle it on his own and marches out to Black. No one says anything when he opens fire on the small Galra craft — no one says anything at all until after Shiro notices something familiar in the way it dances away from him with wild grace, cutting every margin unnecessarily close and reacting so quickly that it might be anticipating Shiro's every move. It dives and flips until it forces an opening — and then doesn't take it. It doesn't fire a single shot.

Instead, it falls into formation at Shiro's right flank.

He pulls up and powers down Black's weapons just as Allura's voice bursts over his comms. "Shiro,  _ stop!" _

It takes a moment for him to find words. "I'll escort him back," he says, not dwelling on the reasons his voice is shaking and his heart feels like it's tearing itself apart. Everything about this is  _ wrong. _

"Yes," Allura says. "You must see this."

 

* * *

 

They all stand gathered in Black's hangar, pale and frozen as Keith climbs out of the battered Galra fighter followed by a gigantic, strangely patterned wolf.

It's  _ not _ Keith. It's not the Keith who grinned at him before battle three days ago — not the Keith who said  _ 'we can do this — we have to' _ after they failed to isolate Zarkon from his fleet, not the Keith who took a crippling hit meant for Shiro, who screamed then went silent when Voltron's sword clashed with Zarkon's whip-sword bayard. Seconds later, Red went dark, Voltron fractured apart, and they ran. Shiro scooped up Red in Black's jaws, and they ran.

This Keith stands slightly taller, whether he's physically grown or found the confidence that should've been there all along. He's still built slender and lean, but the flight suit beneath his Blade's armor clings to a well-defined chest, and his shoulders seem broader. His hair is longer, tied back in a simple braid. And a silvery scar, one that's years old, runs down his cheek. A mirror image to the one on Shiro's.

Shiro can't tear his eyes away, but neither can he speak. This is wrong. This isn't Keith.

Pidge breaks the silence. "What the fuck," she whispers.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile that's painfully familiar yet so, so different. "Do you know about alternate realities?" he asks. His voice is pitched sightly lower than the real Keith's, but it has the same tone, the same roughness.

Hunk nods vigorously. "Y— Yeah. Yesterday we— you were there and we were there and—"

"You fucking died." That's Lance, with all the bluntness Shiro wishes he could summon for the occasion instead of blank speechlessness. "What the hell's going on?"

"I know your Keith died. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to replace him, I just—" He shakes his head, and when he starts again his voice is stronger. "I want to help. In my reality, we won, but at the same time we lost too much. If I can keep you from losing any more than you already have—"

"You can't," Shiro cuts in. "You don't know anything that can help us. Our realities are nothing—" his voice cracks— "alike." They've already lost enough to render any victories hollow. Keith is… Keith is frozen. Frozen. Yet Not-Keith stands here, whole and telling them that he knows a single damn thing when nothing can ever be the same again.

"Shiro." Allura's been watching, not discompassionate, but firm. She steps close enough that the others might not hear unless they strained, and takes his hand. "We are all grieving, but we cannot afford to turn away any offers of help. Especially since we cannot form Voltron now."

"He's not replacing Keith."

She hesitates. "He's not. But if Red will accept him as her paladin—"

"Whoa whoa whoa." Shiro shouldn't be surprised that Lance has been listening in. "You're gonna let him near the lions? What if he's, like, Evil-Keith?"

"Nothing will happen unless Red chooses him, and I trust the Lions' judgement," Allura explains.

"Anyway, if he was evil, he'd have a goatee or something—"

"Or what if he's a— a  _ clone _ or—"

Unexpectedly, Not-Keith laughs. "I'm glad someone thought of that this time. I promise I wasn't engineered by Haggar and I don't have any embedded triggers that'll turn me into her mind controlled puppet."

"Dude," Hunk says, wide-eyed. "That's like the least reassuring thing you've ever said."

Pidge sizes him up. "I'm scanning you for Galra tech just in case."

"Go ahead — I wouldn't expect any different."

Shiro follows at the back of the group as they file into Red's hangar, watching intently. Not-Keith puts his hands on her snout, and after a moment her eyes flash alight and she gathers herself to sit up straight again.

All the while, he wonders — _ this time? _

 

* * *

 

Keith isn't peaceful in death; Shiro can't look upon him and imagine that he's only sleeping. He's no Snow White, pristine in a glass coffin and waiting to be awakened by a love truer than Shiro's. He's battered and bruised instead, in cryo-freeze because of Shiro's desperate hope that something could be done to bring him back, if only they kept him preserved.

His lip's torn and beaded with congealed blood. His jaw sits wrong, maybe broken. The right side of his face is one gigantic bruise, but otherwise all color's left his skin. His eyes look kind of sunken, his shoulders slant, and, worst of all, he's completely still.

Keith was never still, even in sleep. He'd fallen asleep on Shiro's couch often enough — leaving Shiro warm with the knowledge that he was so trusted — and was all steady breath and twitching fingers and darting, dreaming eyes.

They each stand vigil before they send him out in the pod, reminiscent of sea burials from centuries past. Shiro's there nearly constantly — he hasn't been able to sleep since it happened. The others cycle through, only registering in his notice long enough for a murmured greeting and silent company.

Then the cadence of Keith's footfalls enters the room, ripping Shiro from his rumination.

"I don't see how we're supposed to trust you," Shiro says. He has a feeling Other-Keith is letting him hear each step as he joins Shiro by the pod. "You abandoned your team and your reality and I'm supposed to believe you're here to help us? The Keith I knew would never do that."

Shiro knows how to push Keith's buttons — not because he's ever done it himself, but because he's seen it enough times to know what not to say. But Other-Keith doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't snap to the defensive. "There isn't a team anymore, where I'm from. We did what we set out to do. There's peace."

Shiro can't believe there isn't more work to be done, even if their war is over. "And you don't want to enjoy it?"

"I don't think I was made for peace." Keith never smiled unless he meant it — sharp and fleeting, powered by elation and adrenaline. Other-Keith's smile is bitter. It doesn't belong. "If you can't spend it with the people you love, it just feels… empty." The severity dulls as he glances away. "I know what it's like to lose someone. Nothing's ever the same again. The other versions of you — you were all like family to me."

There's no anger there, only sadness, and Shiro can't bring himself to push it further. Keith always had more patience with him than with anyone else; it's been years since they'd argued. Instead, he glimpsed a handful of Keith's vulnerable moments, where he let the pain of his years show, unmasked by anger.

Shiro doesn't care for this Keith, he tells himself, but he knows it's a significant moment and dams back the flood of his own pain. "So why did you come?" he asks, subdued.

"I've never met a version of you I didn't want to protect. If I can see you happy—" he shrugs— "that's enough."

Shiro reminds himself to breathe. It's not his fault. Other-Keith had nothing to do with Keith's death. Other-Keith hasn't really done anything wrong, but that doesn't stop Shiro loathing his presence, that he's here alive while the real Keith lies frozen in a glass pod.

"How were things different?" he asks, instead of letting the feeling overwhelm him.

"I think events have mostly been the same until the fight with Zarkon. But superficially… Your scar was—" he drew a line across his own face, over the bridge of his nose. "The squirrels were mice. Pidge's glasses were different, Hunk wore a bandana-headband thing. Lance had... face tattoos."

"What, like an Altean?"

Other-Keith's mouth twists at the corners just like Keith's does — did — when something hurts him but he's too stubborn to say it. "Something like that," he answers, and Shiro can tell that avenue is dead.

Why the hell would he care that much about tattoos?

The silence is uncomfortable in a way it never was with Keith. Other-Keith busies himself etching something onto the pod — a mark of respect for a fallen warrior, he explains, a Galra thing — and then stands by quietly, just as contemplative as he studies Keith. What is he thinking? It's not uncommon for fifteen emotions to flash across Keith's face in the space of a minute, but Shiro can't read this.

"It's weird, seeing two of you right next to each other."

His smile takes on a wry twist, unfamiliar. "I know the feeling."

"You've run into another you?"

"No, but there were a couple hundred of you at one point." His face shifts, turning to a hint of a smirk Shiro's seen before, when Keith's strange sense of humor is about to make itself known. That's somehow more unsettling. "If I'd had more time, I might've started a rescue home for wayward Shiros. Maybe bought a ranch or something, so they could be free-range."

It startles a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. "I don't think I could get along with 200 of me."

Other-Keith shrugs. "Anything could happen. There was a version of you who was very Norwegian and buddies with Slav."

"Being annoyed by Slav is fundamental to my identity."

"He was one of the weirder ones," Other-Keith agrees.

"And the weirdest one?"

A moment hangs in silence. Keith doesn't hesitate to speak, not unless there's something on his mind that frightens him, something he won't bring himself to say. "He was aggressive," Other-Keith finally says.

An understatement, but how much? "Did he hurt you?"

"It wasn't the worst," he says, but doesn't elaborate.

They all gather to send Keith to his final rest, and Shiro's the last one left standing on the observation deck, watching the spot in space where they left him behind.

Other-Keith hesitantly touches his arm before leaving Shiro to his thoughts. "I'm sorry," he says again, but they both know words won't make this better.

Nothing can.

 

* * *

 

They struggle to form Voltron, and Shiro fills with the sinking suspicion that he's the weak link. Other-Keith is patient in a way that feels more alien than the Galra, and after some trepidation the others take to him quickly. Shiro can't stop the flinch that runs through him when he hears Keith's voice behind him and turns to see a stranger — scarred and grizzled, older and stronger, sad in a way that lingers. It's not a storm cloud following him to block out the sun wherever he goes, threatening to rage and break down everything they've only just begun to rebuild. It's more like fog, the kind that might burn away with the light of an afternoon that never comes, gentle and ever-present.

The air of melancholy is magnitudes more unsettling than his sudden patience with Lance's needling, and the brush of their minds when they try to form Voltron never fails to make Shiro shudder.

After their dozenth training run and dozenth failure, they fall back to the team-building exercises from when they first started. Traces of Keith linger in this stranger's fighting style, the same crackling energy transformed to fiery grace and packaged into the body of a stranger. Other-Keith is just as unpredictable — Keith always saw things a little differently than most — but tighter, almost. He's perfectly confident in how his body moves, every step measured precisely, and doesn't leave himself open to anything. He moves in tandem with Shiro as if there's nothing more natural, but Shiro's mind takes time to catch up.

Sometimes he dual-wields with his bayard and luxite blade; sometimes the wolf joins him and they crank the gladiator-droid up to eleven, zipping across the training deck faster than a blink.

Contrary to his outward calm, New-Keith's thoughts are a tumult. Shiro doubts any version of Keith will ever be fully predictable, but when he concentrates he has greater control than any of them. But when Coran jumps in to startle them as his newest quirk —  _ "War is unpredictable, paladins!" _ — strange scenes break through.

One time, a scarred Matt grabs Keith by the shoulders, shaking him and shouting, "What the fuck were you thinking?"

(After assuring Pidge that Matt's alive and fighting, though Keith doesn't know how he was found, they take a detour to break Commander Holt out of space jail.)

Another time, Keith's lying in a strange wilderness, curled up between the wolf puppy and a tall Galra woman.

("It was cold out on the space whale and Mom wanted to make up for lost cuddles," he explains, which raises more questions than it answers.)

Perhaps the strangest is a Shiro whose scar runs cheek to cheek, over the bridge of his nose. His hair and arm have turned white, and he stands in a crowd of beaming, teary-eyed people. He and the man next to him wear matching tuxes, and they share a kiss as everyone around them celebrates.

Shiro recognizes almost no one in the scene. Hunk. Pidge. Lance — those must be the face tattoos Keith was talking about. They definitely look Altean or similar. Not a lot else is familiar, not even his apparent husband.

(Keith leaves the room without trying to explain that one.)

New-Keith's said before that the fight with Zarkon was the main point of divergence, but Shiro can't recall seeing the husband  _ ever. _ Other-Shiro has the scar so it can't be before Kerberos — but Allura's not there and when did his hair turn fully white and  _ why _ has he never met his husband before?

Are there more humans who've made it out to space? Is Earth gonna get drawn into this war, despite all their efforts? Despite the hair, Other-Shiro didn't look that old — is he just going to… marry someone?

How long does it take to know someone, Shiro wonders.

(How long does it take to know someone he once knew, but now doesn't?)

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, Shiro imagines that New-Keith is just Keith's older brother, come to join them. Sometimes, he thinks of him as a Keith who somehow went away on a mission and came back six years? eight years? a decade? older, while back at the castle no time passed at all. Or time travel. Or… anything that meant Shiro hadn't heard him die over the comms, anything that would let him believe the entire fight with Zarkon was only a nightmare remixed.

But over the weeks, New-Keith's smiles lose the edge of bitterness, turning sharp as a knife and twice as bright, and it's so familiar that it cuts Shiro to the quick.

It's good, Shiro tells himself. It's good that New-Keith is settling in, he's comfortable around them, he's part of the team. It's good, but he still can't bear to look at it for long.

Shiro roams the castle, searching for something restful — he doesn't know how to rest anymore, but hopes he'll recognize it when he sees it. The cavernous halls of the castle-ship have always left him feeling unsettled, knowing they were built to hold crowds of people and now there's only four and a half humans and two Alteans to fill all the empty space.

People. He needs to be around people.

"Not gonna tell you," New-Keith huffs as Shiro enters the lounge room.

Lance is on one end of the couch and he's on the other, stroking his hands through the wolf's mane and tracing his fingers over the links of the beaten metal collar it wears. Lance took the longest to start treating New-Keith like he always had with the old — that is, with a fair amount of skepticism and prodding. New-Keith bears it with remarkable patience, even though Lance sometimes calls him 'Other-Keith' or 'Buff-Keith' to his face.

"If I say you get together, you'll get cocky. If I say you don't, you're gonna double down to try and change it, and that'll go about as well as Haggar at a Kral Zera." Shiro doesn't know what a Kral Zera is — it sounds Galran, so undoubtedly something unpleasant. "I don't even know if things'll happen the same here, anyway."

Lance squawks a complaint; Shiro just waves and continues on. He won't find anything soothing here.

New-Keith smiles for a split second as he goes by, then turns serious again. "Look. Allura deserves the best. We can all agree on that. So be your best self and see what happens."

He's close with Allura now, and sometimes Shiro wonders if there's something more. She didn't get the chance to fully repair things with Keith before they fought Zarkon, but it seems New-Keith holds no resentment. Shiro sometimes sees them speaking quietly; when New-Keith's not on the training deck or in Pidge's lab, he can often be found on the bridge, opposite Shiro's schedule.

But it's different than it ever was before. Shiro knows — knew — Keith well enough to recognize his expressions on a face that's almost the same. He startles a little when she appears unexpectedly, but looks at her with a soft, fond smile like the one Shiro once saw directed at himself. Once when they were forced to leave the castle in the line of heavy fire, New-Keith looked to Allura first when they returned and swept her into a tight hug. It turned into a group hug after a moment, but Shiro didn't miss the brief panic and relief.

And was it just Shiro's imagination, or did he seem sad just now, talking dating advice with Lance?

Hunk's making noise in the kitchen, but it's controlled enough to be tolerable. Maybe something mindless is just what Shiro needs — he's never been a fantastic cook, but he's great at following directions. Hunk sets him to stirring a bubbling pot full of some Olkari grain that's almost like rice, then makes him taste a spoonful of broth.

Within a few minutes, they're both sitting down to bowls of something close enough to oyakodon that it feels like going home.

Hunk laughs when he takes a too-quick second bite and burns his tongue. "That good? Man, I swear your pupils just dilated out of your head."

"I haven't had this in years," Shiro says. It was his comfort food growing up, but there wasn't anywhere within fifty miles of the Garrison that could do it right. "Didn't think I'd ever have it again." 

"You know, if there's something you want, you can just ask me," Hunk says, pointedly. "It's the little things that'll keep us from going insane, and you've been way stressed lately."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble—"

"You're not. I like doing this, and there's nothing you can ask me for that's worse than the others already have. Pidge wants hot Cheetos. Lance asked for some kind of bread — at least I think it was bread — and all he could tell me was—" he makes a vague gesture with his hands— "and it goes stale really fast. I tried to tell Allura that a dobash is a type of cake, but it turns out there's  _ nothing _ like chocolate in space and that was just. A spectacular failure. There's something Keith wanted, but he only knows the Galran word for it and I'm not about to hit up the Blade of Marmora HQ just for cooking tips."

"I could arrange something with Kolivan. He might be interested in swapping recipes." Hunk cocks his head, interested, and Shiro has to fight to keep from smirking. With deliberate lightness, he continues, "He'd probably make you fight a dozen of them in single combat first, but—"

"Whoa whoa whoa no." Hunk backs up, waving his arms around. "Not happening. Have you seen that guy? I have to turn my head  _ up _ to look at him and I just. I don't like it. Whenever I have to look  _ up _ at someone, it's like 400 million years of evolutionary instinct are converging on one point in all of space time and telling me to nope the fuck out. You feel it too, right?"

Shiro must have gotten used to the feeling at some point during his year in the arena. It feels like kind of a buzzkill thing to say, though, and he's trying to prove to Hunk that he's  _ not _ about to die from stress. "Knowledge or death, Hunk," he shrugs.

"I mean I know he's nice — well, maybe not  _ nice _ -nice, I doubt you get to be the leader of a rebel splinter sect of the most vicious empire in the universe by being nice. Point is, even if he wasn't our ally I would never fucking fight him."

Shiro can't quite understand the sentiment. He'd been about thirty seconds from fighting Kolivan himself, weapons be damned, during the Trials. Watching Keith pick himself up each time, injured and increasingly outmatched — rage and helplessness and fear had boiled beneath his skin.

Kolivan had the power to stop it, and yet...

Sure,  _ that _ had turned out okay and they're allies now, but it's become a regular feature in his nightmares and he can't even comfort himself with the knowledge that Keith's safe in his bed just down the hall.

"He's pretty intense," he says, neutrally. He's a leader, and he can't let his personal grudges affect the team.

"Man. If they're that intense about everything they do, I bet their food's amazing."

"To die for."

It's not at all funny, but Shiro's been simmering with a tension he can't name for weeks and something needs to give. With an ugly snort of laughter, they both end up cackling over the countertop. It doesn't lighten Shiro's mood in the least, but  _ something _ needs to come out.

"Man, it's good to see you smile," Hunk gasps out. "You don't have to stand on your own, you know? It's been a rough few months, but you don't have to tiptoe around us."

"It's nothing I can't handle," Shiro says, sitting up straight again. "Not something I need to bother any of you with."

"Dude." Hunk fixes him with a look as if he's a misbehaving puppy.  _ "None _ of us have been okay, but we're not gonna fall apart if you can't be Fearless Leader 100% of the time. We're a team. The only way we're gonna get through this is together."

Shiro nods noncommittally and swirls the oddly shaped Altean spoon through his bowl. After a couple more quiet bites, he wonders, "How did you know about this?"

"Keith suggested it," Hunk answers, and the taste turns to ash in Shiro's mouth.

Hunk flinches when Shiro sets the bowl down with a sharp  _ clack.  _ "What did— why is that bad?"

"He thinks he knows all this stuff about me, but he's not Keith. He's a stranger who looks like Keith—" except he doesn't, he doesn't, he  _ doesn't _ look like Keith, not enough to pretend— "and I'm not the same as the other Shiro."

"He  _ knows,"  _ Hunk insists. "He wasn't like, 'this will fix all of Shiro's problems forever and eternity,' he just said it was worth a try."

But Shiro isn't done freaking out. "He knows my favorite food, but I don't even know how he got here, or how he found his mom, or what the fuck is the wolf?"

Did the other Shiro drive him out on his hoverbike to that hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Phoenix, the one whose noodles were almost as good as his grandmother's? Did he meet the elderly couple who owned it, did they teach him a few words that he butchered with his unrepentantly Western tongue? Was he still suspicious of fish after food poisoning with a foster family, and did anyone ever teach him how to use chopsticks?

"I know this is really fucking weird," Hunk says, hands out, trying to calm. "I just keep telling myself that if First-Keith had a few more years, he'd have changed, too. We just didn't get to see it so it feels kinda uncanny valley right now. He's hurting, too, but he cares about us. So much that he jumped right back into a war even though there was a chance we'd reject him."

A chance Shiro would reject him, he means.

"He only cares because he looks at us and sees other people," Shiro protests, but it's getting weaker.

"That's... You're not wrong, but that's not really fair."

"It's not fair to us either, that he looks at us and expects things—"

"Shiro," Hunk interrupts. "I think you died." He lets Shiro process that for just a second. "Or, at least one of us did. Are you saying if you somehow... went to another reality or time traveled or something, and there was a Keith and none of this had happened, you wouldn't be freaking out over him constantly? I'm surprised he's being this chill."

"He—" Shiro's thoughts aren't connecting the way he wants. New-Keith  _ said— _

He said they lost too much.

He's falling asleep when the realization jolts him awake. He didn't die in the other world —  _ Allura _ did. Keith gets afraid when she's in danger — different than he does with the rest of them. She's the only one he's reached out to hug, and he's sad every time he talks about her. She didn't attend Other-Shiro's wedding to Mystery Husband.  _ Allura deserves the best. _

Trying to sleep is useless after that.

 

* * *

 

There's an unvoiced fear deep in each of them when they ready to fight Zarkon again. Their link allows them to see glimpses of the others' minds if they concentrate, or if it's something felt strongly — this fear is so pervasive that it leaks out around the edges, echoing and amplifying when they form Voltron.

Shiro can't afford to be afraid; the others look to him for guidance, but it's harder to hide here. Deep breaths,  _ focus. _ He forces calm through his veins, through their minds, and can't completely hide his shock when he feels Keith doing the same.

He doesn't get a chance to dwell.

They shout out conflicting commands and everyone hesitates for one beat, two. Far too long for battle.

Shiro gives his orders again, and they move.

_ Patience,  _ he tells himself, willing his speeding heart to slow down. They have a little time — enough to be smart about this, to keep distance and fire cannons and search for an opening. It's how a squishy, defenseless human survived a year in the arena, fighting monsters with thick hides and hard scales, claws and fangs and spikes. Caution to survive long enough to build a plan, then committing to it with every ounce of his being.

When he dies, it won't be for a lack of fortitude.

They avoid lasers by the narrowest of margins — Voltron feels faster as they weave through the deadly web, and Shiro studies Zarkon, the way he moves, the way he strikes. They dart in close, force him back with quick strikes, then pivot as a beam comes searing for the right shoulder. In that pause, their momentary advantage is lost.

"That's the third time you've wasted an opening to keep me from getting hit," Keith snarls over the comms. He's not wrong, but the way he says it only stokes Shiro's irritation higher. _ "Stop _ trying to protect me."

He summons the sword — not quite against Shiro's will, but not entirely with his permission — burning, burning bright. He's seared into Shiro's memory, something between a grin and a grimace, eyes alight and alive, as if determination alone can sustain him.

Shiro laughs, sharp and bitter. "That's the Keith I remember," Shiro snaps back, and Keith makes a noise like he's been kicked in the ribs.

The shock shoots through all their minds, jarring them down to the bones, and they all turn as one to catch the next blow on the shield as Keith struggles through — he's cut them off, closed them out — his only answer pained gasping over the comms.

"Keith!" It's Pidge, straining to hold Zarkon's bayard back. "Stay  _ here." _

Something— something comes back, then, and when they next clash, all their energies mixing to form something greater, and Shiro finds his bayard in hand. Relief, excitement, determination, and an edge of uncertainty that quickly hides itself. They have no time for fear, yet when the blade ignites— When Black's wings active the way they're truly meant to—

Screaming terror floods across as they strike, desperate strength crackling through him with all the power and all the pain of electricity. It's not his fear; it's not his strength.  _ Something _ gives and  _ something _ breaks — and that might be a shriek or a cheer, pain or joy. 

Everything is pain. Burning, burning bright.

And then everything is dark.

 

* * *

 

With a hiss, Shiro's pod opens and he stumbles out, shivering. Allura's there, steadying him with her deceptive strength. It's more graceful than Shiro would expect it to be, considering how dizzy and numb he is, and she deposits him at one of the exam tables, finds him a blanket, and helps to rub the chill out of his flesh-and-blood arm.

It's useless trying to get warm. Keith's in another one of the pods, too still, and dread crystallizes in Shiro's veins.

Allura notices where he's looking. Not much ever escapes her. "He will recover. Another varga, at most," she says. "Coran and I have been taking it in turns to watch you — it did not seem wise to let you wake alone. The others found it… unsettling to look at him like this."

"You don't find it— unsettling?"

"I'll admit it is strange, but I take comfort that we are safe, for the moment, and there will be no lasting damage."

It's a moment in silence before Shiro can bring any words to mind. "Zarkon?" he asks.

"We cannot be certain yet, but from the comminications Pidge has intercepted, the Empire is currently in a state of disarray." Her lips twitch, a hint of amusement through the somber mood. "Though she used some more colorful words when explaining. We should strike before they are able to re-organize, but we can speak of that later."

Shiro nods; he can't devote the brainpower to it right now. Keith's not as beat up as... as the last time. It's not the same Keith, he reminds himself, but his heart thunders away in his chest all the same.

"How was he hurt?"

"The Lions generate much of their own power, but their abilities are linked to the paladin, and so they draw on your quintessence as well. You were both drained." She steps back over to the pod and touches the glass with her fingertips. "From what I understand, the other you gave everything to the fight with Zarkon. He died." When she glances back at him, her face is apologetic, almost guilty. "I found Keith speaking to the Black Lion. He was her paladin, once, and part of the link remains. He made a deal with her — if the strain will put you in danger, she will take quintessence from him, too."

"He's not her paladin anymore. He can't do that," Shiro says, too tired to really argue, and hopes that'll be the end of it.

"It was the Black Lion's decision to accept, and I—" Allura comes back to his side and touches his arm, her body rigid though her face shows no fear. "I agree with them. Keith and I spoke a long time about his reality. They won, in a way, but it all fell apart in the end. It begins with any one of us believing we are expendable, that we must stand alone." Her eyes soften. "Please think about that, Shiro. This rift between you and Keith is—"

Shiro tries to turn away, but she steps with him, holding his gaze.

"Shiro, you must know that we are not replacing Keith by accepting him," she says, getting to the heart of the matter. "None of us will ever forget him. But it is not fair to punish this Keith when he has done no wrong."

"I'm not punishing him," Shiro protests—

"It does not look that way to him. It hurts him." She touches his elbow again, and when he unsteadily hops down to the floor, she supports him through four slow steps to stand before Keith's pod. "He is good, independent of our memories of our first Keith."

Shiro doesn't like to be near this Keith, doesn't like the weight of his gaze. He tries not to be unkind, but he tries not to be in the same room, either. When he touches the glass now, tracing the line of the scar streaked over Keith's cheek, the cold bites at his fingertips. She has a point, little as he likes to admit it.

"The most important thing I have learned from all of you is that there is no limit on our hearts. I have lost everything, yet I have found a family again. It has not made me love my father or mother any less, and I will never forget them. But we cannot live our lives in misery, forever losing." One of her arms is still wrapped around Shiro's waist though he doesn't physically need the support, and she places the other hand over Keith's heart. "There is much he would give you, if you would accept it."

Deep breaths don't help to calm the agony threatening to burst inside him, a geyser on the brink. He can't talk about this anymore, not now. "Sounds like it's been crazy while I was out." It's clumsy. The words come out from the throat, shaky, not hiding as much as he would like. His hand trails down the frigid glass until it rests next to hers, fingers barely touching. "I'll be okay here on my own, if you want to get some rest."

She smiles sadly up at him and squeezes his hand. "Think on it," she says as her hand leaves his, and her footsteps quietly recede.

He doesn't know how long he stands, tracing over Keith's too-still form with his eyes. No bruises, nothing marring his skin except the silvery scar down his cheek. Shiro's is the mirror of it, streaked down the other side of his face and slightly pinker. His is a younger mark — wherever it came from, Keith's has had more time to fade.

Keith's pod finally whirs, releasing him, and in a moment Shiro is there to catch him. He's solid in Shiro's arms, but cold as ice and trembling. Shiro gathers him against his chest; Keith keeps trying to take breaths that catch in his throat. When Shiro rubs his back he crowds closer, finally filling his lungs and shakily letting it go.

Neither of them are ready to speak. Shiro walks him back and lifts him to sit on one of the tables. Keith was always deceptively heavy for how slender he was. Now, filled out, he's a more significant weight in Shiro's arms. Keith doesn't let him pull fully away as he steps back, clinging to his wrist.

Shiro lets him.

"Does anything still hurt?" Shiro asks. It won't do much to soften the things he needs to ask, but it's only polite.

Keith shakes his head. "Just stiff." He doesn't mention the shiver that rocks through him.

With a breath, Shiro begins. It's a fine line to walk — firm but not harsh, open but not soft. "You went behind my back with Black."

Keith sighs out slow, but doesn't deny it. "It was important, and I thought you wouldn't agree to it if it came from me."

"It wasn't your place."

His gaze snaps up, irises narrowing to slits. Shiro's only seen that happen once before. "You would've _ died. _ You can't sacrifice yourself. That's not what a team does. We stick together." All the fight drains from him, just as quickly as it had flared. "I can't lose you, too."

The sentiment resonates. Shiro nods, subdued. What was it Hunk had said? If he found another place where there was a Keith and none of this had ever happened…

"What was he to you?" he asks. "Your Shiro."

Keith doesn't answer for a long moment, jaw shifting as he searches for words. "…It's complicated," is all he comes up with.

"So complicated that you can't even try to explain?"

The gap of silence isn't quite as long this time. "I don't know what I was to him, but he was  _ everything—" _ his voice catches and breaks— "to me."

Perhaps Shiro should have seen it; perhaps a part of him knew all along, and was afraid. "You loved him?"

"I did." It's a declaration, his voice strong.

Shiro steels himself to keep his voice just as strong. "I'm not him."

"I know." There's a little, humorless laugh. "You're pissed at me. He just stopped talking to me."

"What do you want from me?"

"I don't expect anything," Keith says quickly. "I want you to be happy. I want you to be  _ alive." _

He's not answering the right question. "But what do you  _ want?" _

Keith's eyes dart down. "I'm not trying to use you to replace him. I promise." Then, smaller— "But is it so wrong of me to want someone who actually wants me around?"

His voice wobbles the tiniest bit. It hits Shiro suddenly, the weight of all his small confessions — First-Keith, this Keith, both Keiths. A puzzle of omissions, outlandish details spoken with deliberate unconcern, daring Shiro to balk. Never anyone who cared enough to keep him, never anyone who looked long enough to see the pain.

And pain is shining in his eyes, more obvious the more he tries to hide it. All Keiths are terrible liars, it seems, if you know where to look.

"If I don't want you, what then? Gonna go find another Shiro?"

"I'm not gonna try to replace  _ you, _ if that's what you're asking. I can't." The words shake; a breath almost steadies him. "Every version of you is precious, and  _ none _ of you are replaceable. Every single one I've lost has been devastating."

They're close, Shiro realizes. Keith leaned further and further forward as he spoke, and now he's maybe an inch away from Shiro's face, fixing him with a gaze painful in its sincerity. Shiro's not sure how he ended up standing between Keith's knees, pressed up against the table he sits on, the scant space between their chests charged with an intensity he's reluctant to name. If they weren't still half-frozen, he might be able to feel heat.

How many has he lost?

Keith draws away, scooting back as far as he can. "If you don't want me here, that'll hurt, too. But it's not like I'll force my presence on you if you don't want me to stay."

Shiro flexes his stiff fingers and carefully, hesitantly fits them to the curve of Keith's hip. In an instant, he goes rigid. "It scares me," Shiro admits.  _ "You _ scare me, but I want you to stay."

He loved Keith. He loved Keith, and this isn't him. This man is more than a memory, someone who holds hope for a future in his hands, every part of him jarring and compelling in equal measure — and Shiro wants him to stay.

He leans in. It's not the mouth he's dreamed of, but it's almost as sweet.

 

* * *

 

This Keith sleeps curled in on himself, so still that Shiro's heart almost explodes with panic when he wakes in the middle of the night and remembers— Keith is never still, except for the Keith he pulled from the Red Lion, the Keith frozen in cryo, the Keith they left behind.

Whenever Shiro shakes him awake, needing to see his eyes open and alert, he just murmurs softly and pets Shiro's hair and kisses him until his heart calms and they both nod off again.

But Keith hasn't stayed the night since one of his own nightmares, where he woke calling Shiro's name and then threw himself back so forcefully that he fell to the floor, panicking. Something changed in his face when he calmed enough to reach, hands shaking, for Shiro and ran his fingers over his cheeks until he touched the scar. This Keith is harder to read, but Shiro can guess at what happened.

He's not the right Shiro. He's not the one that this Keith wants, and there's not a damn thing he can do to change it.

When Keith stands to his right, neither of their scars are obvious when they look at each other. But sometimes when Keith approaches from another direction and catches sight of the scar down Shiro's cheek, his mouth flattens or his shoulders tense or his eyes shine with an unreadable light.

He's used his tongue to map out every other scar on Shiro's body, but rarely touches that one. The gentle, calming touches and soft, sleepy kisses are long gone. He doesn't let himself fall asleep in Shiro's arms — hell, he doesn't even like to fuck with the lights on.

"I'm not him," Shiro says into the dark, after Keith's rolled out of bed and started pulling on his clothes.

"I know," Keith answers as he leaves.

They don't touch again until Shiro seeks him out. Since that first kiss, they haven't gone more than a few days without getting hands on each other — sometimes, when Shiro thinks about it for too long, his stomach gnaws at itself in guilt. Desperate, he's desperate. The Keith he loved is dead, but this— this—

This Keith.

He knows this Keith in ways he never dared hope for, with the other.

His body is obscenely responsive under Shiro's hands, arching into his touch, urgently grinding against him before they've even managed to get any clothes off, moving Shiro's hands exactly where he wants to feel them, trembling and bucking when they get it just right. He touches Shiro unabashedly, roving with fingers and lips and tongue — sucking his neck, biting at his clavicle, squeezing his pecs.

He nips and sucks hard enough to bruise, then flits close enough that his breath ghosts over Shiro's lips — staying a fraction out of reach until Shiro loses the shreds of his patience and surges forward. Tangles his hand in silky dark hair, a stark contrast against cold metal, and yanks Keith to where he needs. Holds him tight to stop him wriggling away and makes him melt into bruising kisses.

When they part for air, the light in his eyes and his breathless grin spark a seed of hope in Shiro's heart. He leaves the lights dim. He's not testing, not really. He just wants to see the face Keith'll make alongside the soft whimper — the one he barely seems to notice he makes, when he's overwhelmed. If he can get Keith to look at him, too—

But Keith's eyes close, and stay closed.

Sharp, nipping kisses don't coax those eyes open. Tightening his grip on Keith's hips draws forth a devastating moan; setting a rougher pace has Keith scrabbling for grip, blunt nails digging into Shiro's shoulders and back. The bite of it reminds him that they're both here, both alive and in each others' arms, but Keith won't— won't open his eyes, won't take a moment to look at the man before him.

It's almost too easy to draw noises from Keith's throat, like he's never learned to be self-conscious of it. Shiro's feelings on that fluctuate between a wry thankfulness to anyone who ever encouraged the sharp groans and gasps, shuddering sighs, torturous moans — or simmering fury that somewhere out in the multiverse is a man who held all of Keith's devotion in his hands and  _ somehow _ decided it wasn't good enough.

And Shiro's not good enough to make him forget.

He grabs Keith by the chin and holds him so he can't turn away. "Look at me," he commands.

Keith's eyes pop open, so dark that the enchanting purple of his irises is only a thin ring, and he stares at Shiro, transfixed.

He's gone still; they both have. He grabs Keith's hand and presses it to his face, forcing Keith's fingers to trace over the scar that the other Shiro doesn't have. "Don't think of him when I'm the one fucking you."

With a grind he moves again, pushing back in, rougher. Keith's chest heaves with shaking breaths, and that delicious whimper escapes his lips. "I'm not— I'm not."

Shiro's rewarded with a whine when he tugs at Keith's hair again, pulling his head back to expose the length of his throat. He gets a keen when he sucks a mark onto him that'll definitely be visible in the morning, a wrecked moan when he slides his fingers over Keith's slick, reddened lips. He growls against his ear— "Did he ever make you moan like this?"

Keith can't speak around the fingers he's just sucked into his mouth, but he shakes his head frantically.

"So d'you want to be mine—" he snaps his hips, feels the scrape of Keith's teeth— "or his?"

He grabs at Shiro's shoulders, his hips, anywhere he can cling on— When Shiro takes his fingers away, he gasps out, "Yours—"

_ "Mine." _

Keith doesn't let him stop until he's teary-eyed from overstimulation, boneless and quivering against Shiro's side. Shiro's cheeks burn with what they've just done and what he's just said. He rolls away and stares up at the ceiling, catching his breath. It's stupid to be jealous of someone who's not even here, and they both know it.

Keith's hand bridges the space between them, curling around his hip. It's just a moment before he's sitting up and testing his legs, a moment more before he's out of bed, but he only goes as far as the bathroom. He's in there a long time, moving around slowly, then not at all.

The minutes stretch so long that Shiro's resolve breaks — "Forget I said anything," he mutters, turning over when Keith finally returns.

Keith sits down on the edge of the bed, but doesn't say anything right away. His fingers find their way into Shiro's hair — smoothing down the longer strands at the crown of his head then scratching his blunt nails through the short, clipped hair of his undercut. It shouldn't be soothing, but it helps Shiro let go of a breath that's been stuck in his lungs.

"If it's bugging you, we should talk about it." Keith's voice is scratchier then usual, but Shiro only gets a flash of satisfaction that he's hoarse from all the noise Shiro drew from him only moments ago.

"What is there to talk about? You want him, and I can't be him."

"I don't want him," Keith says, too quickly.

The noise he makes must be a little too disbelieving, because Keith leans over to get into his line of sight. "You know we were never together, right? Me and the other Shiro. There's no comparison there." He lifts his hands from the bed, as if he wants to reach out and touch, but sets them back down. "I'm not thinking of him when I'm with you."

"Then why won't you look at me?" Shiro asks, more petulant than he intends.

Keith lets a long breath go. "I already fucked up. I'm kind of surprised you still want to see me. And if it happens again, I don't think I can fix it."

"What're you talking about?"

"That nightmare. I didn't mean to freak out like I did, but… I couldn't get the image out of my head, of him dead. Sometimes my brain still expects things to look how they used to, and you're not him. I know you're not him." Keith curls in on himself, still perched there on the edge of the bed. "It's not that I still want him. I had years there and months here and you  _ just _ started liking me and I'm so, so scared I'm gonna fuck this up."

"Is this just sex for you?"

"No—" He shakes his head. "No."

"Because it feels like that's what it is."

His posture wilts further. "I guessed that would happen, but I don't… I don't know what else to do."

He, too, must have learned to be a leader along the way, always wearing his uncertainty hidden behind plate armor. But he's not unflappable, not unfeeling, not unafraid. Seeing him like this is somehow more unsettling than the rest of it, but in a more familiar direction.

Shiro lays his hand against his lower back and rubs circles there. "Stay." When the tension starts to drain out of him, Shiro tugs at his hips until he's sitting back in bed again, until he slides down to lie against Shiro's side. "We'll figure it out."

He's still spooning Shiro in the morning, one hand twined with the Galra arm, the other stuck underneath them — it'll be all pins and needles once he moves. He wakes when Shiro shifts in bed, grimaces as he moves that arm, then smiles. It's tiny, but it's real. He drops a kiss to the tip of Shiro's nose without any indication he'd dreamed of someone else.

Shiro strokes his hair, soft despite the tangle that it is, and he hums — the sound rumbling out from deep in his chest. Do the Galra purr, Shiro wonders. It's not a question worth pinging the Blades' HQ for, much as he'd like to imagine Kolivan's quiet exasperation. Instead, he digs his fingers in deeper to draw circles against Keith's scalp, cataloguing the noise he makes alongside all the others.

"You ever call him Takashi?" he asks, softly. He almost hopes Keith won't hear it; it's stupid to be afraid, but he can't stop the clench of his heart.

"Nnnnn." Keith moves as little as he can, but quickly shakes his head before positioning himself back under Shiro's fingers.

"Will you call me that?"

"Yeah." He steals Shiro's hand down, kissing a line across his knuckles, one to the heel of his palm, then finally lingering at the pounding pulse in his wrist. "My only Takashi."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on:
> 
> [Tumblr](https://peggycarterisacat.tumblr.com/) | [ Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/peggycarterisacat) | [ Dreamwidth](https://peggycarterisacat.dreamwidth.org/) (still figuring that last one out)


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